Bye Bye, Birdie
by Scratch O'Brien
Summary: ...This story isn't all about me. It's about life, and angst; it's about people. Those I know very well, those I know not-so-well. I figured it was interesting enough to be commited to something other than my memory.
1. BIRDIE

_I don't own _Newsies_, but I do own Jay and any other characters that were not in the Disney movie, unless specifically noted. Strong, helpful critique is appreciated. This is just a teaser chapter... I'm pretty freakin' infamous for those._

Cold. Strong. Imperial.

That's how most describe him

But I was a birdie. I was trained to see what others did not.

I saw warmth, and humanity. I even saw him cry, once. It was the December of the year he turned twelve. He had found an abandoned baby that had frozen with the cold. It made me cry, too.

I followed him around one day, hidden. He took a ragdoll from two boys and gave it back to the little girl they had stole it from, giving the boys a stern warning. Just like the one he gave me later when I discovered he knew all along I had followed him.

"I have a reputation to keep up, Jay," he said in a tone that hinted that that comment was the end of it. I nodded, and told him of Queen's plans for a territory invasion.

"They're getting smarter," I said. "They know we usually expect them during the summer."

"Yeah. Tell Marbles and Pokes. Have them get the word out. Tell them I plan a meeting tonight at 9."

"No credit for me?" I knew I sounded like a whiny prat, but that was the sixth time I hadn't been able to share a discovery of mine.

"I trust most of my newsies. Most, not all. One of 'em may share -whether on accident or on purpose- the secret about your existence to somebody who shouldn't know. I need more birds like you as it is, so I'm planning on making sure you can stick around as long as possible to train newbies."

"Alright," I said, hiding my disspointment. I was good at hiding things.

"Glad you understand. Seeya tomorrow."

"Seeya," I said, as we went our seperate ways.

That was his first year as leader, those four long years ago. I'm still the best birdie. Quiet, tactful, master of disguise, even with only the few costume pieces and props we had borrowed or stolen from Medda.

But this story isn't all about me. It's about life, and angst; it's about people. Those I know very well, those I know not-so-well. I figured it was interesting enough to be commited to something other than my memory.

I hope you think so, too.

_See that little button down in the lower left-hand corner of your screen? Well, click it and submit a review! You can review even without a fanfiction account!_


	2. PILLOW FIGHT

Author's Note: _I would have had this up earlier today, but my Internet connection (yes, I work directly in the document on ff . net) spazzed out on me and I lost more than half of this document :( . I had to rewrite mst of it, but I actually like it better now_.

_I'm really amazed at how much you guys like this story, though it's only been up a couple of days. It already has five people on it's story alert list and four reviews (I know, it's actually fairly pitiful, but it's this story is almost as popular as the original_ Quicksilver_ was. For my _Quicksilver_ fans reading this, I will work on another chapter for you guys tomorrow, kaisies?)_

Disclaimer: _It has been brought to my attention that there is someone else out there with a newsie named Jay. So along with telling you all that I don't own _Newsies_, I must also say that any similarities --including, but not limited to, name-- between characters that I have created and persons living or dead, or any fictional characters, are purely unintentional. As for the word "tickly"... I just invented it, okay! ;)_

A Note on Turn-of-the-Century Terminology:_ "Beau" is a boyfriend. "Sweetheart" can be either a boyfriend or girlfriend. "Dinner" is what they called lunch, and "supper" is what they called dinner. I promise you that those terms will be relevant to the story :)_

xxx

July, 1899

xxx

I climbed down the fire escape quietly. As you can imagine, this was not an easy feat, especially in a very heavy skirt that reached my ankles and heeled boots. I landed quietly, then walked down the alley away from the main street and into another back alley. From there on, I tell you no more, except that eventually I ended up on the street.

Today I was playing factory girl. It was a good cover; the shirtwaists they wore were mass-produced, and my dark brown skirt and heeled boots were in no way out of the ordinary. Therefore, no one could identify me for distinctive clothing. My hair was puffed up and pulled into a bun on top of my head -- average hairstyle for a factory girl. If anyone asked where I worked, I would say a glove factory, thus explaining the absence of any stray threads or cotton bits on my clothing.

I was to pick up information on what exactly was going on in Manhattan. We knew something was up -- the other birds just hadn't been able to figure it out. So I was sent in to get the facts.

xxx

"A strike."

"A _strike_? Why? Kelly's a newsie -- he's seen the headlines about the trolley workers! Does he _want _the heads of his newsies smashed into the street?"

After I had changed back into my much more practical newsie clothing and pulled my hair into a ponytail, I had gone to meet Spot. He and I were sitting in a more private area of the docks -- there was extra netting on all four "walls", and we had a couple of other birds guarding it (casually and inconspicuously, of course). "There was a new boy there," I started, "David Jacobs. His little brother, Les, was there, too. All we've found out about their family so far was that the boys are selling papers because their father was injured at the factory he used to work at, and that their older sister and mother knit lace and crochet doilies to sell to local milliner and tailor shops. They were poor before, but since their dad got laid off they've been even worse off. It doesn't help that there are fewer shops that'll but their mother and sister's lace anymore because of all the factories."

"That's it?"

"I think I did fairly well for nearly four hours of work! And I have the fledglings out digging for more worms."

He stood up and sauntered over to the crate I was sitting on. "Is that what you call the minor birds now?" he sniggered.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing. You did good, Jay," he said, clapping me on the back. "Go get yourself some dinner."

"Already have. It's amazing what you can con out of Medda," I said, widening my eyes and using my oh-so-innocent voice.

He smirked. It was well-known what a softie Medda was. "Cursed little charlatan," he said, chucking me under the chin.

I stuck my tongue out at him.

"Careful, Jay. Don't bite the hand that feeds you."

I rolled my eyes. "You wouldn't dare throw me out."

"How do you know?"

"I'm a birdie," I said, standing up and walking towards him, lifting up my chin so I could look him in the eye. "I know many things."

"Too many things," he muttered, sitting down on the crates that I had formerly occupied.

"Hey!" I protested. I stuck out my lower lip and quivered my chin the tiniest bit.

He smirked at me. "Pouty faces don't work on me, Jay."

"But you took my spot!" I said, dropping the pout and crossing my arms.

His smirk grew. "Well, if you're gonna be like that," he said, extending his right hand toward me, the palm up, "maybe we can share the crate."

I took his hand and let him draw me to him, until I stopped just short of the crate. "Should we be doing this in public?" I asked. "If someone sees us--"

He chuckled. "Just sit, worrywart," he gently teased, and pulled me the rest of the way to the crate and onto his lap.

I settled against his chest and let him wrap his arms around my stomach. "You know," he murmured into my ear, "I think I like you better when you're not so prickly."

"Keep it up, Conlon," I said. "You have yet to see just how prickly I am."

He gave me a smile that could only be described as evil. "Did you just say that I have yet to see how _tickly_ you are?"

I wasn't quick enough. In no time at all, I had been reduced by the relentless tickle torture into a squealing, giggling girl, squirming on Spot Conlon's lap.

"Hey, Spot!" someone called. Spot stopped tickling me and looked up to ask one of his other birds (who had forgotten their guard duties to snicker at us and make perverted comments) who it was.

"It's Pokes, Spot," the guard called over his shoulder

"Thanks -- I'll be there in a minute," Spot replied as I began pulling myself off of his lap, muttering threats of blackmail (believe me -- after eleven total years of knowing Spot, four of those eleven being his bird and these last nine months of those four years his sweetheart, I've gathered more than enough dirt to pull blackmail off successfully).

After we had completely disengaged ourselves (to the great amusement of Pokes and the two birds who had been standing guard) Spot grabbed my chin and kissed me on the mouth. "Seeya later, Jay," he said into my ear before releasing my chin.

"Seeya later," I said, smiling at him.

He smiled back before he ducked out of the secluded spot on the dock. As he met up with the two birds and Pokes, I saw one of them clap him on the back and make some comment while glancing back at me. Spot glared at him and said something that scared the poor newsie out of his suspenders.

I smirked. Spot was naturally secretive, and could get rather protective -- not to the point of being obsessive, no, just protective. It just sort of made you feel... safe, you know? That your sweetheart wasn't making perverse comments, or kissing and telling behind your back. That's just the kind of guy Spot was -- most don't expect him to be so gentlemanly, but it's true.

But I digress. After Spot had left, I undid the thin, dark green ribbon that held my brown hair back in it's ponytail before smoothing my hair down with my fingers and tying it back again. I tucked in the part of my shirtwaist that had come undone during Spot's tickle torture before setting off to gather the dirt my network of fledglings had picked up.

The last thing I wanted was to look like I had been doing more than reporting -- especially in front of fledglings, the oldest of which was only eleven.

xxx

"So what do you have for me, Gabriel?"

"Their address," he said, and slipped me a piece of paper. "And names -- The dad's Mayer, the mother's Ester, and the sister is Sarah."

Gabriel --at least, that was his street name; I'm not at liberty to tell you what his Christian name is-- was one of the youngest fledglings, but definitely one of the smartest. He was of average height for an eight-and-a-half year old, but his longish, fair hair and big brown eyes made him look younger.

His cuteness made him the perfect spy. I normally had him collecting information on the streets -- older ladies loved him, and were more than willing to share the latest gossip, and, on occasion, a bit of food, with the adorable little boy named after the Archangel.

"Good work, Gabe," I said. "Would you mind running all that information to Spot for me?"

"But I thought-- the older boys said since you two were-- well, weren't you..." he trailed off, blushing.

I rolled my eyes. "I've been to see him once today, Gabe. Any more and someone may get suspicious," I said, gving him the slip of paper back. "He should be at the docks. Just tell him your slingshot is broken and that Jay said he was the one to fix it. He'll understand."

"What if he asks to see it?" Gabe asked. He pulled his slingshot out of his back pocket. "It's not--"

I grabbed his slingshot, and stretched the one of the rubber bands on it until it broke.

"Yes it is. Don't worry, Spot really is the one to fix it-- he'll have spare strips of rubber somewhere. Now go, before it gets too dark."

"Right, Jay," he said, taking back his slingshot.

I tousled his hair. "Seeya," I said, and watched him until he had turned the corner. I then made my way back to my boarding house.

xxx

There weren't enough girl newsies in Brooklyn to convice the city to build us a lodging house all to ourselves. Instead, we had to find alternate lodgings. A number of us stayed in Mrs. Whicks' Boarding House for Young Ladies. It was a good lodging house; Mrs. Whick was kind to us, even though she required that all her boarders attend church. Supper every day of the week was included in the lodging fare, and there was only the occasional cockroach.

My roommates, Laura Sprying and Mary O'Leary, were factory girls, instead of newsies. I'd often borrowed their work clothing for spying jobs, since both were about my size (a little more filled out in the chest and hips, but not by much). They were kind girls, though a little sheltered, and stupid so far as reality goes, but I made an allowance for them since they hadn't been raised by the streets of New York City. They didn't even have accents.

I was just in time for supper. My roomates greeted me in the main room. "You're home later than usual," Laura said slyly as Mary giggled.

I checked the small clock on the mantel. "By fifteen minutes," I protested. "And that's still a half hour before curfew!" I had a fairly good idea where this conversation was headed.

"Out with your beau again?" Laura asked as we headed into the dining room. Mary began snorting between giggles.

I began blushing. "I was with him earlier but--"

"Oooh!" my roommates chorused loudly.

I hushed them. "But he is not the reason I am late!"

Mary brought her giggle fit under control long enough to say "Of course not!" Then she began snorting like a pig.

A tea towel swatted at their heads. Mrs. Whick had come to my rescue! "Hush, ladies," she said, "and go sit down!" she winked at me and I mouthed a quick thank you at her.

After we had all sat down, bowed our heads and closed our eyes, Mrs. Whick, who sat at the head of the table, said the blessing:

"Bless us, oh Lord, in these thy gifts, which we are about to recieve from thy bounty, through Christ, our Lord, Amen."

"A-_men_!" we said in unison before we began to dine.

xxx

"So, what exactly were you and Sp--"

"Shut up!" I yelled at Mary. The only downside to Mrs. Whicks' boarding house was that the pillows were rather hard -- I took advantage of this by chucking my pillow at her head. Hard.

I didn't miss.

"Oww," Mary whined, rubbing her head. "You're gonna get it!" She grabbed my pillow and lunged at me.

Laura was sitting on her bed reading. I was closer to her bed that I was to Marys', so I grabbed Lauras' pillow and defended myself.

"Hey you two! Go ahead and have a pillow fight, just don't drag my pillow into it!" Mary and I paused long enough to look at each other. She jerked her head slightly toward Laura, and I nodded.

Laura caught on fairly quickly. "Oh, no you don't--" she started before ducking and crossing her arms over her head as we ambushed her.

She made her way over to my bed and grabbed my pillow, hitting back.

This wasn't just a pillow fight. This was _war_.

Mary began crying out war cries at the top of her lungs. I jumped from bed to bed, dodging blows from the pillows. We didn't even hear the door open.

"Ladies!" cried Mrs. Whick, who had brought a pillow of her own. She smacked each one of us on the head with it. "Could you please quiet down! I called lights out ten minutes ago!"

"Yes, Mrs. Whick," we chanted, heads down, trying to hold up the image of proper, remorseful girls.

"This is your only warning. Get to bed." We each retrieved our pillow and climbed into bed, under Mrs. Whicks' watchful eye.

"Goodnight, ladies." Mrs. Whick said.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Whick," we chorused.

As soon as she had blown out the lamp and shut the door, whispered conversation began. I can't remember it -- as I have mentioned, this is a story about human nature, and humans tend to forget everything that happens just before they fall asleep.

It is once again that time of night I should be in bed asleep as I write this. It seems a good place to finish, so I shall.

Goodnight.

xxx

_Please drop a review and tell me what you did or did not like about it!_

_Loves and huggles,_

_Scratch O'Brien_


	3. PRIDE IS THE FATHER

Author's Note: _As you Newsies fans can tell, I have taken liberties with the time frame of the orignal movie. In this story, I am sending our favorite "ambastards" Jack, Blink and Davey on their mission a day late. _

_Guess what? This is the longest chapter of_ Bye Bye, Birdie _to date! Woot!_

_Also, you guys need to tell me which story you would like updated next on the poll on my profile... ;)_

Note on Re-upload:_ Spelling errors I couldn't just leave there. _

Disclaimer: _I don't own Newsies, but I do own Jay. Any similarities between original characters in this story that resemble other original characters or persons, living or dead, are purely unintentional and yada yada yada. I am also not trying to push Christianity on anybody in this chapter, but as you will see later Jay, while not being totally about her religion, is still a very Catholic girl. _

Note on the Biblical references in this chapter:_ "The Virgin" refers to the Virgin Mary. Mary Magdalene was a woman that was a prostitute that later became a disciple of Christ (after forsaking prostituion, of course). I can't remember if it's Biblical scholars that said that Mary Magdalene was a prostitute, or if it was the Christian Bible itself. If it's the scholars, I have no clue when they decided that, so for the purposes of this chapter you're just gonna pretend I'm right._

xxx

_The next day_

xxx

My lungs burned with the fire of determination. I ran as hard and as fast as I could, breathing raggedly. _Get there before them, get there before_ _them! _My left hand lifted the length of my skirt to above my ankles while my right hand sliced through the air. Annoying tendrils of hair were coming out of my ponytail, and a breeze from my right was blowing them into my face.

I had almost made it to the harbor when I realized I should have come up with a story before I started running. No sane sixteen-year-old girl sprints towards the harbor and it's perverted dock workers with her skirts held above her ankles without good reason._ Damn! Make up a story, make up a story... _

I figured Pokes would be there about this time of day. We look enough alike. I could just grab onto his arm and yell "Momma's baby is comin'!" if it came to it. I have no idea why anyone would care or stop me, but it's happened before.

I skidded to a stop and realized I was too late. _Damn!_ I approached the posse, slowly, quietly, and with confidence. Spot eyed me out of his peripheral vision. He knew I was there, and he knew _I_ knew he knew I was there. He was going to be -- well, he already was, but he didn't show it -- mad that I didn't get word to him about Kelly's little visit sooner.

I snuck up behind them and ducked into the spot where the other birds and I gave Spot debriefings. I could still hear what was being said. I agreed with most of it, and tried to think of a way to convince Spot to join the strike to keep my mind off of the lecture I was going to get later. _Jay, you little wimp. He's just going to chew you out. It's not like he hates you or is going to kick you out or anything extreme. He's just going to lecture you. It's what he does with all his birds!_ the reasonable side of me said.

_But... I don't like getting yelled at..._

Sensible me scoffed and turned to cruel me. _Silly girl. You don't give a damn about lectures. You're just being a selfish little pansy who wants her guy to be nice to her. You forget, Jay, that now you two are leader and bird, not guy and girl. He's not going to go soft on you just because he's sweet on you. There's a time and place for that, and now isn't it. You're just mad because he doesn't treat you like his little sweeheart all the time. You know why? Because he can't. He has work to do and so do you. So hop to it._

I sighed. I hate sounding whiny, but we had been together for nine months. I know it's not incredibly long in the entire scheme of things, but it was longer than most adolescent relationships last. _Nine whole months..._ I thought. Half of the time, he was my beau. The other half, my leader. It depended on what was going on, and the mood he was in.

Judging by the looks he was giving me, today he was the latter. As soon as Jack and his posse got up to leave, I slipped behind a part of the wall where the nets were extra thick and prepared myself for a talk with my leader. The Manhatten newsies had sauntered off the docks, and our most of our own Brooklyn newsies had dispersed, except two birds. He said he wanted to talk with them, which gave the dozen or so newsies left the hint that he wanted them to leave. No one, excluding Spot, the birds, and myself, knew they were really guards for the talk Spot and I were about to have.

He entered the small space. "You know, Jay, I think I would have rather heard about their visit before they came. I didn't have any time to prepare tea." I couldn't help it. I winced. It didn't go unobserved by Spot. "Is this just an off day, Jay?" he asked, his tone a little kinder, "Because yesterday you wouldn't have -- look at me, Jay," he said, his voice back to the angry tone it started with. I met his stony gaze. "It must be an off day. Yesterday you wouldn't have any problem looking me in the eye, much less wincing. What's the matter with you?" he asked, taking hold of my right shoulder and gently pulling me a little closer towards him.

I knew he was being kind -- at least as kind as he could be without feeling he was going soft -- but I couldn't help myself. I pulled his hand off my shoulder and took a step back to my original position. "What's the matter with _me_?" I asked, "What's the matter with _you_? You think that you can waltz right in here and start critisizing my abilities as a bird without knowing the facts? I sprinted from Kelly's distribution center all the way here as soon as I heard the news!" I said, gesticulating wildly.

"Maybe you should have found out sooner, Jay," he said coldly, settling against a crate in the exact same manner he had done with Kelly and his friends.

I threw my hands up in the air. "I don't see what the big deal is! Whether or not I told you they were coming, you would have let them come!"

Spot opened his mouth to argue, but then shut it again. After a momentary pause, he said "It's just good to know these things, Jay. You're my best bird-"

I cut him off at "best bird". "'Best bird'?" I asked. I kept the volume of my voice low, but I put every ounce of venom my voice posessed into my words. 'Best _bird_'? Yesterday, it would have been 'best girl', but I suppose that constricts your freedoms too much,_ leader_."

Spot stood up. "Would you two mind leaving?" he asked the birds outside, who had been listening intently. They got devilish looks on their faces, and you could almost hear the perverted thoughts they were thinking. Spot gave them a dark look. "If I hear any new rumors after you two leave..." he started. They ran off.

He turned and approached me. "Listen," he said, his voice at the same volume as mine, "I try my best. You know how hard it is on me sending you out into the field? Into the alleys? If you were just my girl instead of doubling as my bird, I would be with you every damned step of the way. But if I even go so far to _suggest_ helping you, you accuse me of being a sexist who's trying to take away _your_ freedom!"

Now we were nose to nose. Whenever we took in an angry, shallow breath, our chests brushed against one another. Fists clenched, eyes shooting fiery arrows, we faced off, and I threw the first vocalic punch. "It's my _job_, Sp--"

"Yeah, well it's my job to be your leader, Jay."

I quieted down. My shoulders relaxed and my fists unclenched, slowly, and I realized that I hadn't even known I was that tense. I looked at the ground. I saw the dirt, the scuffed toes of our boots. "What happened to being my guy, Spot?" quietly, but not meekly, I asked, looking up at him.

He slowly wound down, too. He reached his hands up and brushed the stray wisps of hair out of my face. He rested his hands on my shoulder before speaking. "What happened to being my girl, Jay?"

I glared at him. "Why do you always asnwer me with a question?" I demanded, my voice starting to sound angry again.

He continued to stare at me. "Why don't you answer any of them?" he asked, his tone as even as the look he was giving me. I tried staring back at him, but looked away after a moment. "Hey," he started, his voice much more gentle. He took my chin in is left hand and turned my face so that I was looking at him. "What's wrong?"

_Stone. Cold marble_, I thought as I put on the blank mask that I wore when being interrogated. "Nothing," I replied, meeting his gaze.

I won't say that it was the lighting that made him look unhappy for the moment in took for him to drop the hand on my chin back to my left shoulder. I know for a fact that he was sad when I said that. He quickly covered it up, though, by glaring at me. "Don't bullshit a bullshitter, Jay," he hissed, his grip on my shoulders tightening. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Why? Do you not trust me?"

"Jay!" he said, letting go of my shoulders.

I crossed my arms and cocked my left hip. "Spot!" I replied, reverting back to my defense mechanism of sarcasm.

He shook his head. "Of course I trust you," he said, looking into my eyes. He let out a sigh. and looked away from me, out into the harbor. "Jay," he began softly, sticking his hands in his pockets, "I think we need to talk-"

"I've already told you all I know about the strike," I said flatly.

He shook his head again. "Not about the strike, Jay... about..." he let out another sigh. "About us."

I felt an anvil hit me in the chest. "Are you-" I started, interuppted by a harsh sob. My eyes wide as saucers, I began again. "Are you saying we're going to- going to-" I shook my head fervently and turned on my heel. I understood it didn't matter whether I stayed to hear the news or not: Spot was breaking it off with me. I was a coward, and I knew it.

He grabbed my left arm with both hands. "No! No... I'm not saying that... I'm just..." he looked as scared as I felt. I slowly relaxed my arm. "I'm just saying that we have a lot to talk about, so we can make this -- us -- work out, alright" he asked gently. "I don't want there to not be an us, Jay. Please say that you think the same thing."

I looked up at him and nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

His shoulders relaxed, and he gripped my upper arms gently. "Listen, Jay," he started, "I'm sor-" he stopped, surprised at the word he had almost spoke. I felt another sob threaten to come forth. I swallowed it before I scoffed at him.

"Damn your pride, Spot," I said, shaking my head, and dodging out of his grip. "Damn your pride." I turned and ran back the way I came, tears threatening to come all the way.

_Stupid sun. Why can't it rain? I want it to rain. I_ _don't want people to see me crying_, I thought as I dodged people on the sidewalk on my quest for a space to cry.

I found myself in an alley and huddled in doorway before hunkering down to start crying. My tears had been reduced to ragged sobs and occasional sniffles when I saw the ragged hem of a maroon skirt in front of me. I slowly looked up. The skirt turned out to be attached to a bodice with a collarline much too low for propriety. I continued looking up and was greeted by a blue-eyed woman in her twenties wearing lip color and cheek and eye powders. Her eyelashes were a deep black, not matching the massive amounts of wavy blonde hair that had been piled up on top of her head. This could be because she was wearing a wig, but I highly doubted it since her eyebrows matched her hair. A more likely explanation was that she had brushed ink onto her lashes.

"What seems to be the trouble, darlin'?" the harlot asked me in a Southern accent.

I glared up at her. "Cut out the accent," I retorted. "We both know you're no Southern belle."

She rolled her eyes at me. "Smart kid," she said, reverting back to a Brooklyn accent as heavy as Spots'. She pulled a cigarette and a book of matches out of the front of her dress. She lit up, tossed the match on the ground and shoved the matches back down her dress. She took a drag before starting again. "So, I asked you a question, kid," she said, smoke blowing from her mouth as she said it. "Now how 'bout you answer it?"

I saw no reason not to tell her. "Boys," I said flatly.

She raised her eyebrows. "Boys?" she repeated, "Are you sure it's the plural? Because when most girls say that, they are really referring to the singular."

"Singular," I said. "One, singular boy, that I really really care for."

"Have you ever been with him?" she asked. I looked up at her, horrified. She snorted. "Little prude. No, not like that, just as sweethearts."

I nodded. She looked at me like she expected more, so I said "Nine months."

She let out a long whistle. "Wowie. How old are you? Sixteen? That's fairly long. So, why aren't you together anymore?"

"Well..." I started as she sucked in more toxic fumes from her cigarette, "I think we still are. Last time I spoke with him he--"

"Litsten, kid," she said, settling down to my right. "Just start from the begining."

So I did, not even caring that I was telling my problems to a prostitute. I told the entire story, top to bottom. I was smart enough to tell her that I was just a newsie, not a bird, and I didn't tell her who my leader was.

When I was done, she added her thoughts on the matter. "I think he cares about you. I think you care about him. And," she said, snuffing out her cigarette, "I think you both agree with me." I just shrugged. She continued. "Pretty stupid of you to just run off like that. I think Matthew just paused mid-apology because he doesn't give them out often, and it was just unsettling for him to find a girl he would apologize to without forcing himself to."

I began shaking my head yes before I turned my head sharply to my right. "Wait- I didn't even tell you his newsie name, much less his real..."I trailed off. Oh. I was looking into her eyes, for the first time realizing I had looked into the same pair of icy blues before, only in a different person.

She grinned at me. "I thought you were a bird, Jay. Aren't birds supposed to catch on to things like this quickly?"

"I- I- well-" I began stammering.

"Stop before you hurt yourself, kid. Better go hunt down Matthew and have that talk with him."

I nodded, standing up as she did. "Thanks for the advice."

"No problem. I'd love to stay and chat, but I have to go to work. Tell Matthew that I said hello."

"I will," I said, turning to leave.

"He's a good kid, Jay," she said. I turned back around. "He's crazy about you, too. Couldn't shut up about you yesterday when I went to visit him. He'll be good to you."

I nodded again. "Thanks, Mary," I said, the woman's name finally coming to mind.

She grinned at the mention of her name. "Ironic, isn't it? I was named after the Virgin and it turns out I'm more like Mary Magdalene."

I smiled at her, not showing any of my teeth. "Even Mary Magdalene was redeemed," I said.

She snorted. "Matthew told me you went to Mass every Sunday. Crazy kid. But now I really gotta go before Ben comes out here and tries to recruit you after smacking me. Seeya, Jay."

"Seeya."

I turned and walked toward the docks -- I needed to find Spot.

xxx

_I'm sorry if having Jay and Spot fight at the beginning of the chapter was rather Mary Sue, but I decided that if they were lovey-dovey all the time it would be even worse. So... what exactly is Mary's relationship to Spot? You'll have to keep reading to find out... mwahaha!_

_As always, read and review!_

_Regards,_

_Scratch O'Brien_


	4. A SOMEWHAT BRUISED APPLE

Author's Note: _This is sort of a short chapter, but I like where it finishes. Enjoy..._

Disclaimer: _Mrs. Hughit, the fruit cart lady, the underage gamblers, Mary and Jay are mine. As for Mrs. Hughit's surname... I don't know. It just came to me. It's pronounced hue-HIT. All other characters and the movie _Newsies_ belong to Disney._

Extra Note:_ In a research recently conducted at a fictional university, fanfiction writers than recieved plenty of reviews seemed to write more quickly. This is because the fanfiction writer is encouraged and wants to write more. The researchers (who are as fictional as the university they work at) also noticed that adding a story to favorites or alert also encouraged the writer to write more. It also helps if you go to the poll on the author's profile, such as that of Scratch O'Briens, and vote on which story you would like updated next._

Note on the Re-upload:_ I for got to say _Newsies_ is the property of Disney. They would have had my guts for garters if I didn't change it!_

xxx

I walked to the edge of the alley and waited until a big crowd of people walked past me. I joined their group and headed back the way I came. Later I realized that I should have collected information from Manhattan first, so that both Spot and myself would have more time to think; I suppose it may have been for the best, though. The two of us needed to talk.

On my way back to the docks, I walked slowly, allowing myself to be distracted by the people and things I passed by. It was a very warm afternoon with a slight breeze, so plenty of people were out, especially the tenement kids.

I caught a few boys gambling just outside their tenenment. Walking towards them casually, I stopped at a cart next to them and muttered in their direction "Bulls at two o'clock -- haven't noticed you yet, but they look like they're looking for something."

One of the boys looked up and saw the cops. "It's Jakes and Fife!" he said, sounding alarmed. The group quickly left, scattering so they wouldn't all get caught if they were found. None of them were caught -- at least on that day -- and the coppers never suspected me.

I was walking a few yards away from those gamblers when a little old lady carrying a basket bumped into me, and I bumped into a fruit cart, causing one perfect, shiny red apple to fall to the ground.

"Sorry!" I said; whether I said it to the old granny-lady or to the cart's owner, I'm not quite sure.

"It's alright, Irma," the little old lady said. "But I always told you you shouldn't walk down the streets dreamin' like that. You're lucky you ain't been run over yet..." I recognized her at that moment as Mrs. Hughit; I sat on the same pew as her during Mass. Her adult daughter tells me that Mrs. Hughit had a friend named Irma when they were in school, who apparently looked like me.

"You're right, Mrs. Hughit," I said. "Did you drop anything," I asked, searcing the ground. She hadn't so I picked up the apple that had fallen from the cart and made to hand it back to the cart's owner.

"Nevermind," she said. "Just keep it; it looks bruised. No, no money. Just go," she finished. She sounded like she wanted me to protest more, and beg her forgiveness. I didn't fall for it.

I gave my thanks to the fruit seller and double checked to so if Mrs. Hughit needed anything before I firmly gripped the apple in my right hand, and continued my slow but steady progress towards the docks.

xxx

He was sitting on one of the many crates on the docks. Of course he would be; where else would he go? He was Brooklyn, and Brooklyn was the docks, the swish of the water, the seaweed tangled in the nets. He was Brooklyn, and Brooklyn had a penchant for red apples, even if they were a little bruised.

The crate he was sitting on was twice as long as most. His hat was to his left, leaving his hair to fall forward into his face, blown about by the light breeze. He was drawing. He had a natural talent for it. He was sketching the river. You could always tell when he was sketching something that he was looking at or something from his memory. When he was looking at something, like a model or a landscape, he never had to look at the page -- just at the model or landscape.

I polished the apple on my skirt before taking a few steps forward, bringing me a little over one and a half yards to him. "Hey," I called.

He paused a moment, like he didn't know what to say. "Hey," he said finally. After a second of hesitation, his hand slowly reached back down to his stick of charcoal and he began drawing again. I had caught a glimpse of it; I was right, it was the river.

I stood there, unsure of what to do, for a little less than a minute before he paused again, resting his charcoal stick against his paper and turned to me with that look on his face -- the one that no one else can do, that odd, gentle smirk with the bemused eyes that was always reserved just for me. "Well," he started, "aren't you going to sit down?"

I covered the rest of the area between us, my steps hesitant at first. I stepped around the crate and sat down to his left, moving his hat to make room. I wordlessly offered him the apple with my right hand and he took it with his left. His fingers brushed against mine, and lingered on the a little longer than propriety wished, but it would be a lie if I said I minded.

He examined the apple carefully, turning it about in his left hand while his right kept hold of the paper and the charcoal. The heel and pointer finger of his left hand were covered in charcoal from blending in areas on the drawing. He sat it down to his right and quietly resumed drawing. He gave me no verbal thanks, but none was needed -- I understood what was said in the silence.

"Spot..."

He set his drawing and charcoal on his lap and turned to listen to me.

"I'm sorry. I overreacted. Mary said-"

He quirked an eyebrow. "Mary? As in my sister?" I nodded. The eyebrow raised a little higher. "How did you meet up with her?"

I blushed. "I ran into the alleyway that she happened to be- uh- working in and she recognized me..."

He chuckled. "Leave it to you to find one of the most dangerous alleyways in Brooklyn." He smiled at me, so I knew he was teasing.

"So, are we good now?" I asked.

He shook his head. I was about to protest when he said "I haven't apologized yet. And we still need to talk about how to make this work. So, Jay," he began, looking into my eyes, "I'm sorry. It wasn't pride, it was just odd wanting to apologize to someone."

"That's what Mary thought it was," I said. "Now, about making us work..."

"It's going to be tough," he said. I nodded my agreement. "I think it's going to be trial and error, with basic ground rules that we both set. Rule one: I'm allowed to be slightly more protective of you than the other birds."

"Spot-"

"Don't fight it. Your turn."

I glared at him. "Fine. Just so long as you still let me go out into the field. And spy by myself on occasion."

He nodded. "I didn't mean that I would be domineering, but by George you are _not_ going into an alleyway like Mary's _ever_ again in your entire life without me."

"I wouldn't want to."

There was a long, awkward pause before I felt a charcoal-covered hand pull my hand into its gentle grip. "We're all set now?" he asked.

I nodded. "Definitely," I said.

With our fingers still interweaved, he absentmindedly began stroking my thumb in his. "So," he began, "what should we do now?" He looked at me with the most wicked grin that ever graced the face of a human being.

"We could go to the distribution center for the evening edition..." I said, purposefully avoiding noting I knew what context Spot was thinking.

"It's fifteen 'til two. The evening edition comes out at five. It won't take us that long to get to the distribution office."

"Well," I said carefully, "I have some mending to do at home..."

He gave me that look, the one reserved for me, except a little more wicked. "Are you sure that's what you want to do?" he asked, leaning in ever so slightly.

I looked at him sideways. "Pervert."

He laughed. Stowing his sketchbook and charcoal in a special hiding spot, he crammed his hat onto his head, slipped the apple into his pocket and pulled me up from the crate. "What are you talking about, Jay?" he began, looping my arm through his as he began walking towards the bridge. "I thought we should go collect the information from the birds you stationed in Manhatten. You really need to pull your mind out of the gutter," he said, grinning.

"Why should I? Is it blocking your view?"

He grinned again. "Yes. I can't think the normal thoughts that I think when I'm around you."

I felt my face grow piping hot. I'm fairly sure that my cheeks were redder than the apple (when I asked Spot later how red my blush was he couldn't keep a straight face long enough to answer me). Spot began laughing again before I smacked his arm (and not gently, either).

"Ow!" he said. "That actually hurt, Jay."

"Poor Spottykins. Should I kiss it better?"

I realized what I said only after I had said it. A person could visibly see the perverse thoughts racing through Spot's mind. "No," he began slowly, "but you can-"

I grabbed his collar with both hands and kissed him before he finished his sentence. I wasn't planning on it lasting _quite_ as long as it did, but I'll just blame that on Spot.

xxx

_Thus ends chapter four of Bye Bye, Birdie. Spot's artistic talent is completely my own thought... but I decided he needed to keep some of his pervertedness (if that's even a word). It's a character trait of most boys his age, so I decided that as long as he doesn't turn into a man whore in this story you guys wouldn't kill me XD_


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